


Mother of Pearl

by Watergirl1968



Series: Treasure From The King [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, M/M, canonverse, care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin stood beside Jean. The top of the flaxen head reached just below Jean's shoulder. The small hands were calloused, ink-stained. The gear-worn joints had a tendency to crack: elbows, knees and knuckles. And the incongruous, upturned face: heart-shaped, porcelain-fine, cherubic. That sweet face had no business belonging to a soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother of Pearl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherrybubblegum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybubblegum/gifts).



> A wee trade with cherrybubblegum, who writes and draws jearmin in canon so beautifully! A little ficlet which I hope fits the spirit of CB's lovely fic, Thought-Provoking! 
> 
> ALSO PLEASE NOTE: sort-of-spoilery for manga...takes place a few chapters back in the manga.

"Where you going?" 

Jean glanced up from his bunk, where he'd been stuffing items from his footlocker into his jacket.

Armin, peering down at him curiously from the adjacent top bunk, blond fringe free-falling, like feathers.

"With Heichou."

" _Where_ with Heichou?"

Jean Kirschstein shook his head, pressing his full lips together.

"Sorry. Can't say. Levi asked me to keep my gob shut."

Armin swung down, sitting on Jean's bunk. He put out a hand, fingertip touching the butterfly knife on the coverlet.

"Did Levi use that word? Gob?"

Jean stopped, staring at Armin. Serious, ocean eyes regarded him.  

"Gob," repeated Armin quietly, rising to leave. "Whatever you're up to, watch your ass."

Jean chuckled at Armin's uncharacteristic turn of phrase. "My ass! I'm so pleased that you care about my…." He looked up again. 

Armin stood beside him. The top of the flaxen head reached just below Jean's shoulder. The small hands were calloused, ink-stained. The gear-worn joints had a tendency to crack: elbows, knees and knuckles. And the incongruous, upturned face: heart-shaped, porcelain-fine, cherubic. That sweet face had no business belonging to a soldier.

"….health," Jean finished weakly. "You care about my health…"

__________

Hunger on the face of small children was abhorrent to Erwin Smith. Exposure to the hungry, the infirm and the sick hadn't dulled the empathetic pang he felt in the face of such misery.

When a hard frost had taken the last of the cabbages, turnips and root crops from the fields surrounding the orphanage, he had pulled his Captain aside.

"Find currency for food," He had said to Levi, in the dark. "Do whatever it takes."

Levi's smoky eyes had flicked up to Erwin's face, once. 

On a chilly evening, just as yellow braziers were beginning to smoke, Levi had rounded up Jean Kirschstein. It had to be Jean. He was strong, fast and beyond eager to be of service. What he was _not_ was inquisitive, like Armin; uniquely valuable, like Eren, or chaotic, like Sasha.

They'd taken horses as far as the core of Sina then flown to the rooftops, cold air buffeting the skin and aching inside of the ears.

"I need," Levi said from behind Jean they as perched on a slate-tiled roof, "for you to do exactly as I ask. No bravado, no tricks. No surprises. Understand?"

 Jean was too curious to argue.

With that, Levi swooped off of the roof, spiralling down a dark hole into the underground, like a bat coming home to roost.

__________

_Ver-bee-na. Verbena._

Tiny fingers traced the word in Armin Arlert's scrapbook. The precious tome held samples of herbs, flowers and medicinal plants, carefully preserved between wafers of waxed paper, and labelled.

"Ver-bee-na!" squeaked the tot again, a little boy called Hamish. He had too-short trousers and a cardigan. To Armin it was like looking in a mirror.

"Yes," Armin nodded. "Verbena."

"Biscuits?" Hamish asked hopefully.

Armin sighed. "No. I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow."

When Jean and Levi had taken their leave, Armin had seen them off. Before spurring out of the yard, Jean had reached down to Armin, and touched his face.

It had been so unexpected that Armin had yelped, as if burned by a coal.

Jean had laughed then, throwing his head back and ruining any tenderness that may have passed between them. Armin had scowled, crossing his arms across his chest.

It troubled Armin, now…for he'd happened upon a memory. Grisha Jaeger, nearly always serious, had taken it upon himself to pinch Carla, his wife, as she did the dishes. She'd shooed him away, cheeks staining pink against her dark hair. When Grisha had pinched her again, Eren and Armin had flown at him like two tiny mad bees, provoking him until he'd hoisted one under each arm and dumped them into a pile of laundry. That day, there had been an awful lot of laughing, as well as affection. 

Perhaps Jean hadn't been mocking him, or trying to show him up. 

__________

Jean had stood, with Levi, inside of a cavern whose walls were festooned with mustard yellow and orange bolts of silk. Within, several men lounged, fingers steepled thoughtfully, hands so chubby that the rings adorning their fingers had no hope of ever sliding free.

Levi accepted a small, studded goblet from one of them, drinking. He passed it to Jean. It smelled like monkey piss.

"Drink," Levi hissed.

"S-sir…" Jean felt the icy scorch of Levi's glare. He drank. It was noxious. He swallowed.

Levi sat, cross-legged, in front of one of the men. He spoke to their hosts in a language that seemed more a series of clicks and hisses than actual words.

Jean kept his posture relaxed, but his eyes and ears sharp.

Some small, gleaming package exchanged hands. Levi nodded, rising.

"Good," he said, collecting Jean and beckoning him to follow. They crossed the floor of the cavern, passing a number of recesses in the wall that held all manner of curious objects; weapons, jewelery, the severed heads of creatures. Fans made of bird feathers, carved and polished phalluses which made Jean bite his lip in amusement. 

"You. Boy." The gravelly voice of his host, who had appeared behind them. "Choose something."

Jean cocked his head, looking quizzically at Levi. Levi nodded. "Choose a gift, Jean." Levi instructed. "It's a formality; a show of his generosity."

Jean browsed the bizarre and amazing collection.

Then, he gasped.

"This, sir," he said.

__________

The third of November dawned, dull as a wet-feathered owl. Clouds hung low on the horizon, and a wet wind gusted, spitting at the soldiers as they split wood, tended their horses, and rode patrol.

Armin huddled inside of his green mantle, shivering as he clucked at the team of horses he drove. He'd been assigned to spend his sixteenth birthday moving rocks. These had been turned up by the ploughs, and deposited in huge piles. They would be used to face hearths, build walls and wells.

For a diminutive person, Armin handled the workhorses with exceptional ease. If asked, he opined that it was consistency that had created the rapport between him and the matched cream horses.

Armin valued consistency. It was a cornerstone of trust, after all. When a person could be relied on to do a certain thing, say a certain thing…well, it put one at ease.

Eren, despite the crescendo of his temper, could be expected to flare up and bank down in a predictable fashion, like a geiser. 

Sasha would give most of her evening meal to one of the children, at least every other night. Then, she'd go around the side of the building and cry quietly, ashamed.

Jean Kirschstein had nearly had a punch-up with an MP two nights ago, blistered the air with obscenities, then punted a tin bucket into the air.

That night, he'd clambored up into Armin's bunk, fit himself almost chastely to Armin's freezing, chattering little body and told Armin all about his family's orchards in a soft, measured, sleep-inducing voice. 

 _Apples. Baked apples. Wandering in the orchard. Pressing cider. Soft, fat bumblebees._  

Armin had screwed his eyes shut because it was much too lovely and his belly ached and even his balls ached.

Jean Kirschstein was unpredictable.

But that didn't make him unreliable.

__________

Armin had known it was only a matter of time before it happened. He'd been shifting his load of stone, swinging his body, placing one stone atop another, when he heard the crunch of his finger before he felt the jellied agony.

"Balls!" He'd shrieked, furious at himself for being so careless, and rendering himself useless to his Queen. "Fuck."

Hanji had set the small finger, neat as a pin, and splinted it.

"You've got all the bits," Hanji had nodded. "It'll heal fine."

Armin had scowled like thunder.

__________

Jean and Levi still hadn't returned, at suppertime.

Armin sat in his accustomed spot, without his… _well, whatever Jean was_ …and had eaten thin gruel and dried apple with his left hand.

Mikasa had turned his hand over in her own, sniffing at him like a mother wolf until she'd satisfied herself that no more could be done for the smashed finger.

"It'll heal fast," Eren had slung an arm around his shoulders. Armin sighed. It was easy for Eren to say; he lost limbs as a matter of course.

The soldiers wound their way back to the bunkhouse, the sky finally giving way and a thin sleet soaking them.

Armin lit the braziers in the bunkhouse, clumsily, and hauled himself up onto his bunk.

"Haa!" he cried out.

Then, "Ohhhhh…"

On his bed, sat a shell. A seashell. The largest seashell that Armin had ever seen. It's surface was rough, with what looked like a series of small horns protruding around it's circumference. It was creamy-white and at it's opening gloriously smooth, shiny and pink, like a mouth. Armin curled up, slowly inching his face toward the incredible discovery. He sniffed. It didn't have a discernible odour. 

"Huh," he said. He reached out, fingertips grazing the worn surface. He whipped his hand away, momentarily pondering whether or not the occupant of the shell might still be at home. He snorted. Of course not.

He sat up, triumphant, beaming at Eren.

"Eyyy, where'd you get this?" he asked, holding his trophy aloft.

"Uh?" Eren looked more than a little startled. "What the hell is _that?_ "

Armin's nose wrinkled. _Not you? Nor Mikasa?_

Ah. Jean lay in his bunk, on his back, hands laced behind his head, beaming up at Armin.

"You?"

"Happy birthday," Jean grinned.

Armin scooted backward, out of Jean's sight. 

_A seashell. A shell of the sea. A part of the sea. For me._

He was so excited, he thought he might pee himself.

__________

Whatever Hanji had packed Armin's bandage with had begun to wear off as the rain pelted the barracks steadily, and the soldiers around him snored, exhausted.

Armin felt as though his finger had been smashed with an anvil. He curled, his prize seashell against his chest, clutching the wrist of his injured hand with his good hand, rocking and squirming and trying to lull himself to sleep.

He felt the vibration against the bunk as Jean climbed up to him. He shook his head in the darkness. He didn't feel able to cope with the emotional stew of his embarrassed gratitude, the grinding pain in his hand, and the fact that he'd hoped Jean would get into his bed.

"Go back to sleep, Jean," he muttered.

Ignoring him, Jean arranged himself carefully on his back, raising his long arm and drawing Armin against his side, the small blond head on his shoulder. The injured hand, he placed under his shirt, against the warmth of his chest.

"What a horrible, shitty birthday," he murmured into the soft hair.

Armin sighed. Jean was so _warm._  

"I've got my surette out of my field kit," Jean whispered.

"You do?"

"Yep."

Jean produced the small syringe. "You want it?"

"I can't take it, it's yours."

"Yeah, you can. Levi got me…never mind."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Go."

Armin turned his head into Jean's shoulder, and Jean jabbed the pain medicine between Armin's knuckles.

Armin shuddered, but didn't cry out. 

The grinding pain, so severe he'd been unable to hold still, misted over.

"Here," Jean said softly. "See here," he picked up the seashell in his long fingered hand.

"Armin," His name in Jean's mouth sounded like waves over rocks, "See here…"

Jean took the shell, fitted it against Armin ear, pressing softly.

"Listen, Armin. You can hear the sea!"

A soft, spiralled whooshing echoed against Armin's ear. He could hear it. He could hear the sea. Jean had, somehow, brought him the sea.

He remained motionless, cradled against Jean, listening and imagining and dreaming.

At some point, he slipped into sleep, borne away on the tide.

__________

It happened the next morning, at the worst possible time. It was before muster, and the soldiers in the bunkhouse were at various stages of dress, coiling themselves into harness, finding boots, shaking themselves awake.

From the paddock an angry squawk, like a vulture.

A few raised heads, and the soldiers resumed dressing. Eren was helping Armin to button his shirt, when it was heard again. A heavy, earthy squawking sound.

The soldiers shoved their way outside; the sound was not unlike that of an injured beast.

Armin shuffled, trying to see out of the door, but his view was blocked by those taller than he was.

And then, the squawk resolved itself into a long, rich, pure tone.

It was primordial, alien.

Armin grunted, pressing between two tall soldiers and stepping outside.

He saw Mikasa first, and Levi, both fully armed. No surprise that the Ackermans had been the first ones scrambled to defend the compound.

It was only when Armin looked down, into the grassy paddock, that he saw the source of the sound.

Jean Kirschstein stood, barefoot and wearing only his trousers, with Armin's brand new seashell raised to his lips, cheeks bulging like a squirrel's. He leaned back, taking in a huge breath and blowing into one end of the large shell with all his might.

The tone, pure and heavy, resonated in the morning air.

Armin forgot himself entirely. He let out a squawk of unrestrained delight. Jean gave one final, sonorous blast on the seashell, satisfied that the entire camp was awake, and turned to face Armin.

He put down the shell, placed both hands over his heart and spun before collapsing theatrically into the grass.

Armin laughed then; a rare cascading sound. 

He was enraptured by a goofy, unpredictable, impetuous boy, and he didn't care who knew it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
